


I Wanna See Your Animal Side

by orphan_account



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Barney's actually a good brother, Demon Clint, M/M, Supernatural Crossover, Supernatural Elements, because that sounds fucking awesome, well my demon knowledge is from the show
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-01
Updated: 2014-04-09
Packaged: 2018-01-17 17:27:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1396354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Would you believe it if someone told you demons could get attached? Could fall in love? No, right? Then Clint Barton must have been very special.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dealing With the Devil

**Author's Note:**

> I've been obsessed with Supernatural Clint for a while now but in most of the fics he's a vampire or a werewolve and I prefer demons so there ya go.  
> 

It all started with one Harold Barton. He was an ass. A total, complete ass. If he wasn't busy working in his Butchers shop, he spent his time either drinking his heart out or abusing his family, sometimes both. Mostly both. His favourite punching bag being the protagonist of our story. Of course, he was the youngest of the three victims, therefore was always protected by his caring mother and brave brother. But he had a big heart back then, took that one after his mother, and wanted for the only two people he cared for in this world to stop hurting because of him, for him.

And so he made a deal. A deal with the Devil.

Despite getting bad grades in school and being called stupid countless of times, Clint was resourceful when it came to his passions, one of them being supernatural, which is how he learned about crossroad demons. And because he was so ignorant and naive, when he got enough of seeing the pain meant for him cross his mother’s face, he was determined to put an end to her sufferings.

It wasn’t easy to get his hands on certain necessary ritual items. Acquiring a stray black cat was simple, killing him and fishing a bone out of him was not. Neither was obtaining a photo of himself because those cost money, instead, he managed to convince his mother to give him a photo of his new born self, the only photo that they had of him, hoping it would still count as a photograph of the summoner. Alternatively, gathering some graveyard dirt and coins have been a piece of cake seeing as he was very good at sneaking around and hiding from his father. Luckily for him, there was a crossroad situated nearby, where his little legs could carry him without too much effort in no time. So when he has assembled all the essential components for the ritual, he took off sometime after midnight for his destination.

The stars were hidden that night, leaving the moon alone to barely light up the streets, but enough for Clint to burry his box containing the summoning ingredients in the center of the intersection. For a while, nothing seemed to happen, the area stayed dead silent but Clint could feel a light breeze picking up. Straining his ear, he heard a small ruffling sound behind him. Heart thudding in his chest, he slowly turned around to face the demon, and was surprised by the image that awaited him. From what he read on the creatures, he expected red skin, horns, wings or at least a pointy tail. But then again, most mythological books were filled with complete bullshit and honestly, he didn’t even expect for the spell to work. Standing in front of him was a woman with curly brown hair wearing a too revealing black dress. She was sporting a smirk on her lips but he could detect a hint of surprise in her eyes. She looked normal, that is if you didn’t account her red eyes. Clint was secretly grateful because the familiar appearance eased his nervousness.

“Now this is something new. Aren’t you a little too young to be summoning demons in the middle of the night honey?” she asked, giving a sweet but clearly fake smile.

Clint glared at her in return. “Maybe, but does age really matter to your kind? Either way, let’s get to the point. I want you to do whatever you need to do as long as it stops Harold from hurting my mom. Stops her from hurting because of me. In exchange, you can come and bring my soul to hell in ten years. That’s how your deals normally work right?”

The demon blinked in surprise but quickly recovered from the shock and gave him a sly grin “Well someone has done their research. Yes, normally that’s how our contracts work, but let’s twist it a bit shall we? I’ll lead your mother to her peace and allow you to live your life for a bit longer than ten years. At the age of twenty, you’ll have to give me your body to use as a vessel, no matter the circumstances. I like to change scenery from time to time.”

After only a moment of consideration, Clint agreed. He was so young and oblivious, he didn’t suppose she would kill both his father and his mother at the same time in a car accident. That that would lead him and his brother to a tattered orphanage with both the inside and the outside in worse conditions than the hellhole he used to call home. The workers didn’t pay the slightest attention to them so at least no one got injured. They were never able to fill their stomach but neither did they ever starve. Hygiene and treatments stayed the same as before. Life didn’t get better, but it didn’t get worse either, and Clint was fine with that because he took pride in knowing he was the one to free them all from Harold’s anger, the one to free his mother from her misery of having to protect her children because she had nowhere to go, nowhere to hide.

By the time Clint reached the age of thirteen, Barney decided to drag him away from the orphanage and run away to a circus that was passing through town at the time. Carson Carnival Of Travelling Wonders. At first, Clint hesitated, he wasn’t comfortable with leaving this newfound safety even if it was unpleasant most of the times, but Barney was stubborn, saying he would never leave his baby brother alone, that he was his responsibility now and he would take care of him but it would be easier if they weren’t somewhere where they could easily get separated. Still inexperienced and so trusting, Clint gave in shortly after the initial suggestion. It wasn’t difficult to convince Mr. Carson, the ringmaster, to take them in, they were both pretty young and fast learners who did their best to keep a roof above their heads and food on their plates. Their main job was to look after the animals, Clint's favourite being Macy, the elephant, and help set up the tents, sometimes cook dinner or assist the performers, up until the Swordsman and Trickshot chose to take Clint under their wings. He discovered that he was great in swordsmanship and acrobactics but he was even better in marksmanship, specifically archery. But the trust between apprentice and teachers didn’t last long, both of the mentors betraying him, leaving him for dead when they failed to lure him into their criminal lives.

Though soon enough, after missing the chance of joining his brother in the army when he got tired of his carnie life, Clint was alone, abandoned by every person he thought he could look up to. So he left the circus, built walls around his heart, and in order to survive in this fucked up society, to his utter dismay, he followed the paths of his mentors, he became a criminal, a mercenary.

He became Hawkeye, the bow-carrying assassin.

And he dreaded the day he turned twenty.


	2. Faces From the Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time to have fun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm shit at dialogues.

The life of a mercenary was not easy, not that he ever thought it was. But Clint was on the verge of giving up, of turning himself in because at least in prison they gave meals and had a decent roof on at all times. He has barely digested any food over the last three days, only managed to doze now and then and the radiator in his shabby room won’t work; although the latter was expected seeing as he was temporarily residing in an old, ratty, cheap motel that resembled a Swiss cheese. Overall, he was starving, exhausted and freezing; in addition to that, he was also hiding from his most recent client, a considerably powerful Russian mafia leader who didn’t react too kindly when Clint declined his latest job, perceiving his rejection to work for him as a blasphemy.

Hawkeye’s first few kills weren’t at all pleasant, especially in cases where the victim was innocent, just a precaution that needed to be erased from his customer’s board to make sure they wouldn’t get in the way. Fortunately, as his reputation increased, more assignments arrived at his hands giving him the option of rejecting the ones he dissented and still possess enough cash to get him through a good couple of nights.

Which now leads us to our favourite archer’s current situation. Grigorievich, the client, has sent out a hit on his head with a reward of one million dollars, taking Hawkeye’s refusal too personally in his opinion. The small sum was relieving since hardly any professional assassin that could actually murder him tended to take jobs of such low calibers. On the other hand it was also insulting because Clint strongly believed he was worth more than that.

The job that caused all this commotion consisted of eliminating one John Smith, an FBI agent that had the misfortune of being assigned to Grigorievich’s case and bad luck of closing in on a discovery of sufficient data and solid proof that would allow justice to land the traffickers in jail for the rest of eternity. The man in question had a crystal clear record, was happily married and has adopted two kids, Clint could’ve never find it in him to put an arrow through this guy’s eyeball no matter how badly he needed the money. Years of bloodshed and committing crimes and he still had his big heart.

“You’re in some deep trouble, Hawk.” stated a female voice from behind him.

Not even bothering to look in her direction, Clint replied “You know I wouldn’t be able to take out my target even if I wanted to Tasha. I’m still carrying my mama’s heart, can’t get rid of it to save my life.”

Natasha Romanova, or Tasha as he liked to call her (the first time he did that she smacked him upside his head but hasn’t cut off his tongue yet so he guessed she didn’t resent the nickname as much as she acted to), was widely known as Black Widow, the most dangerous spy known to agencies, who, for some odd reasons, found it worthy of her time to befriend him, a dumb middle school dropout ex-carnie. It was an honour.

After a moment of silence, none of them finding anything to say, Clint turned around to find her already gone, no evidence of her having been there just a moment ago. It was typical of the female assassin to disappear without a trace when things got awkward, after all, Clint was the first person to not desire her death for as long as she remembered, her first ally; possibly friend but that was improbable since in their lines of work having friends or any kind of attachments for that matter was a weakness, a liability. A straight road to your heart for your enemies.

Clint went back to facing the door and closed his eyes, hoping the wariness, the paranoia carved into him over the years spent as an outlaw would allow him at least few hours of good sleep instead of making his body tense and stay wide awake at every small sound.Then again, if not for his alertness he would most definitely be dead by now so he’s not going to complain too much. Although, it is possible to die of sleep deprivation.

Before he could fall into the space between sleep and wakefulness, he felt a familiar drop in temperature he couldn’t quite place his finger on and a dark presence that sent shivers down his spine. He forced his body to relax, not letting his intruder know that he was aware of their presence and cautiously reached for the gun located under his pillow. Once he got the well-known grip on his gun, he swiftly twisted around in bed and aimed at his opponent planning to shoot first ask questions later, letting his reflexes take over. But what he didn’t expect is for his weapon to be ripped out of his hands and thrown against the opposite wall by an invisible force. Promptly glancing at the slim figure on the other side of the room, Clint immediately froze in his spot, eyes widening and jaw dropping open.

“I was going to say “Happy Deathday honey” but you seem surprised to see me so I take it you either forgot that you’re turning twenty soon or about our deal regarding your dear mother in general?”

The archer still couldn’t make his jaw work yet so he stayed silent, staring dumbly at the demon, still in the body of the same woman from dozen years ago including her freaky red eyes.

“I must say, criminal life worked out well for you. Or at least for your body.” She said when he didn’t utter a single word back. “So would you like to do anything during the last few hours of  your life? Tell me, what’s your dying wish?”

“Would it work if I said it is to live longer?” he attempted

“Nice try boy, but no. It would render our contract pointless. I know you’re smarter than this, it’s not every day you see a seven years old going around making deals with demons. ”

“Well you did ask me for my dying wish.”

“Smartass, I think I might miss you when you’re gone from this body.” the demon snorted, then after a moment it picked up again “How about this for your dying wish. Once I take control of your body, I can keep you alive for a while and together we can go and slay the guy that’s been hunting you.”

Clint narrowed his eyes, suspicious “What do you mean? Be more specific.” he questioned, slightly scrunching his nose in anticipation.

“I’ll share my new vessel, your body, with you until we’ve murdered Grigorievich. How about that? Sounds good no? We could slit his throat or rip his guts out, anything that will float your boat in the afterlife.”

“Well I’ll have to agree with you, it does sound appealing.” Clint allowed himself to grin from ear to ear with a touch of malice, his eyes filled with madness that has never been there before. This was, after all, his last moments in control, he might as well just let everything loose. “Deal.”

Suddenly, the woman arched back almost painfully, black smoke pouring out of her mouth like fountain water and floated over to the archer. Giving him no time to protest, the smoke wormed its way inside him through his mouth as he collapsed on his knees then his hands, his head tucked between his shoulders.

When the assassin looked up, his eyes were completely flooded with red, matching the pent up anger he felt at the core of his heart since the first time he saw his father hit his mother.

It was time to release it.

It was time to have fun.


	3. Friend or Foe?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to S.H.I.E.L.D.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Graphic description of violence

“Good god this guy went all out didn’t he?” said agent Sitwell, his unsteady voice and wide eyes betraying the coherent horror he felt.

“He sure succeeded in traumatizing the baby agents for life.”

“Oh c’mon, how can you be this composed? Grigorievich has been skinned _alive_ for fuck’s sake. Even you can’t be this calm, Coulson.” Which was true, no matter how unflappable you could be, this bloodshed was straight out disturbing and this was proven by the numerous agents currently emptying their stomach outside, including the professional ones. This was by far the most horrifying carnage Phil had ever laid his eyes on throughout both his careers in the army rangers and S.H.I.E.L.D. which was something to say. All of the guards had had their limbs or guts ripped out into bits and pieces which were then scattered all over the compound; analysis said most of them died from shock caused by the agony, others from blood loss but thankfully for them it was rather quick considering the sizes of most wounds. Although there were a few unfortunate men still struggling to breath, twitching and whimpering for help, their movements restricted due to fatal injuries. The barely conscious witnesses all confirmed that this slaughter was a one man job since once everything was over, once the screams turned into pain filled moans, there was only one last man standing in the middle of the warehouse, no doubt a mutant with possibly telekinesis, they guessed. None of them were able to get a proper look at him, the pain causing their vision to blur and black spots appear at the edges. The worst of damages had been executed on the leader, Grigorievich; the guy had his skin peeled off with such precision and chunks of flesh burned to crisps it was a miracle he was still alive when they found him. However he died as soon as they reached him, rendering him unable to describe his killer, his torturer for them to catch.

At the present, they were clearing out the site, searching for any clues that could indicate their slaughterer’s identity and determine the level of threat he posed to the world but the only abnormal element was the strong smell of sulfur lingering in the air. There was something nagging at the back of Phil’s mind, a memory that seemed crucial to the case, but he couldn’t quite recall it and so chose to ignore it.

He should’ve known better than to do that.

* * *

Saying it was pleasing was an understatement, it was beyond satisfying. Far too much time has passed since his last killing streak. The wails, the howls and pathetic begging filling his ears, the overwhelming coppery smell of blood and its metallic taste on his teeth left him in a delightful mood he hadn’t felt for a long time.

At the moment, Clint was enjoying watching S.H.I.E.L.D. agents running around cleaning up his mess and their own vomit. Such weaklings. There was a team that had been given charge to look out for any remnants left of him, any hint that could help them trace down who the mass murderer was. Obviously he made sure not to leave anything that could be tracked back to him which wasn’t difficult to insure seeing as he was an infernal being with supernatural abilities. The plan for now was to stick to the shadows until he learnt more about human interactions.

It wasn’t time yet.

* * *

Nothing vital could be found on the scenes of the sickening massacre, no hair, no blood, no fingerprint, no more witnesses. It’s like the guy has just vanished into thin air along with any evidence that could help them pinpoint his existence once he was content with the amount of blood on his hands, his conscience. Or once he has killed Grigorievich. Either way Fury didn’t appear like he going to let this one go easily, he went as far as contacting professor Xavier and asking for his help – Fury _never_ asked for help – and turned up with nothing relevant but still didn’t give up. And that was six months ago, everyone else had already lost interest in the case, even Coulson, the peculiar smell of sulfur tucked away and forgotten before he got the chance to give it another thought. Honestly, the senior agent was getting slightly worried about his old army friend, never has he seen him so deeply invested in a situation like this. It came to the point where everyone started noticing their boss’ obsession with a hopeless search for a man, if he was a man, nobody had a single clue on.

Then everything exploded into chaos when the director decided to disappear one day without leaving a memo or notice.

* * *

“Hawkeye.”

“Nick! Long time no see, how have you been?” the archer exclaimed, a broad grin appearing on his face. But Fury didn’t respond, just stared hard at the man nursing his beer in front of him. “What’s up, cat got your tongue or something? You know your mighty glare will never intimidate me, I’ve seen you in drag.” the assassin continued after a moment of silence.

“Who are you really and what have you done to Barton?” Fury demanded. Clint stared back at him, his face unreadable, the previous Cheshire grin completely wiped off of his expressionless mask. Suddenly, he threw his head back and full out laughed until tears formed in his eyes.

“Oh man, this is the first time someone could tell I wasn’t Barton without using holy water or Latin. This is great, how did you know?” he asked, still giggling and wiping his eyes.

“We have a lot of spare time and great storytellers in the army. One of them was a hunter, he warned us about you, told us about your connection with sulfur. I admit I didn’t believe a single word he said at first but now…I could smell you from the entrance. What have you done to Barton.”

“The thing is Nick, I am Barton.”

“Don’t bullshit me or I’ll shoot you!”

“Now, now, didn’t your hunter buddy tell you that bullets don’t work on me? We’re immune to your puny human weapons.” the demon said, wagging his finger.

“Unless they’re filled with salt, then they’ll work.” Fury countered, hand reaching for his gun.

“Oh? And why would you bring salt-filled ammos?”

“I like to take precautions, you left a strong smell of sulfur back at the slaughter site. That was your doing wasn’t it?”

This time, the archer grinned with pride “Yes, it’s a masterpiece don’t you think?”

“Sure it is, now fucking tell me what you did to Barton!”

“Calm down. I didn’t do anything, just my job.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Have you ever heard about crossroad demons? Well he made a deal with me and these are the conditions we settled on.”

“I don’t believe you, no way Barton was stupid enough to do that.” Fury snarled.

“Granted, but he was seven years old back when he summoned me, and had a too big heart for his own good.”

“Jesus.” the director muttered, voice filled with disbelief.

“Now, I have a proposition for you…”

* * *

“Hawkeye, the world’s greatest marksman.” Phil read “Really Nick? You couldn’t recruit anyone less conceited? And he uses a bow and arrow?”

“You’ll be surprised Cheese. He really is the best, even prior to the…accident.”

“What accident?” Phil asked, raising his eyebrow. There weren’t any mentions of  a recent accident in Barton’s personal file.

“Nothing, now get out of here. Don’t you have work to do?” the director quickly changed the subject, successfully avoiding the topic. Phil let his superior’s odd behavior slide this time because really, he was just glad his friend was back after going off grid without any warning to recruit a supposedly dangerous assassin that carried Paleolithic weapons around.

What had his life come to?

* * *

“Agent Barton?” Clint looked up from his seat to see a middle-aged man with thinning hair and a bland smile wearing what looked like a very expensive suit standing over him, his appearance screamed ‘bureaucrat’ but his posture argued ‘military’ as did his gun-calloused hands and perceptive eyes. “My name is agent Coulson and I’ll be your primary handler from now on, if you have any questions or problems please redirect them to me and I’ll do my best to aid you. Now would you please follow me, I’ll show you to your quarters.”

Clint stood up, followed the older man and marveled the view ahead of him because boy was he fit, but soon had to cast his eyes up when the agent looked back at him over his shoulder and lifted one corner of his mouth into a smile.

“Oh and agent Barton? Welcome to S.H.I.E.L.D.”

 

 


	4. Come Apart For Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Agent Philip J. Coulson is a very hard man to break.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Uhm...blowjob? So yeah, careful.

S.H.I.E.L.D. was boring. Sure, there was a great deal of missions thrown at him and he has been busy ever since he joined, but the majority of them consisted of gathering intel or sitting in his – most of the times not so comfortable – nest in either freezing or scorching weather, waiting for a target that will never show. Although, that was the easy part, the hard part were the obnoxious, narcissistic handlers he had to cope with who believed they were better than anyone else, repeatedly pulled rank when provoked and above all, had no sense of humor. But most importantly, there were a lot less deaths than he expected from an espionage and law-enforcement agency that kept meddling in everyone’s business.

The only reason Clint was still walking down the agency’s halls and following its laughable orders was Coulson; he, on the other hand, was fascinating. The older agent never ordered Clint to keep quiet on the comms unless crucially necessary, sometimes even joked back; treated each and every asset equally (unless they were assholes) and was constantly underestimated by everyone who didn’t know or observe him. It was especially hilarious when it came to the junior agents making fun of his old, bland look then get blown away (and pee in their pants) when witnessing him unleash his badass side during missions. However, what intrigued the archer the most was that the man always seemed to be calm, prepared and composed no matter the circumstances.

Clint was determined to break him before leaving S.H.I.E.L.D behind.

If only he knew what he was getting himself into.

* * *

 

His first resort was insubordination. No superiors from any organization whether it was MI6, CIA, FBI, the army or the police, were fond of their agents disobeying orders, specifically direct orders. So when Coulson ordered him to strictly remain in his position and keep scouring the territory, Clint subtly changed his perch to one with better vantage points and waited for any strange movements or activity to report. He didn’t have to wait long.

“A team of three, heavily armed and riding a jeep on my one o’clock.” Clint informed through the comms.

“I don’t see anything.” Coulson replied.

“My one o’clock, your ten o’clock.” But instead of reprimanding him, Coulson just confirmed his observation and successfully continued the operation without a single hitch. It wasn’t until Clint descended from his nest and was approaching the van that Coulson stopped him with a hand to his chest.

“Care to tell me what was that about?” He asked, voice still calm and even like always.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir” Clint answered innocently, battling his eyelashes for good measure.

But Coulson only stared at him for a moment and sighed “Next time give me a heads up before changing position alright?” It wasn’t really a question but Clint nodded anyway, baffled by his response because any other handler would already be calling out on him, pulling rank or threatening him by now. Coulson was harder to crack than he thought.

Time for plan B.

* * *

 

Plan B was fun time. Not so much for his coworkers though. For a high maintenance agency, it was terribly easy to crawl through the vents without security catching you or even noticing you. Clint was currently hiding in the vents above Coulson’s office, awaiting for his victims to arrive and start complaining about his behaviour to his handler. Five people came barging in at the same time looking furious, two of them were covered in paint, one in arrows with suction tips and the two left were drenched from head to toe in maple syrup.

“Coulson! Do you fucking know what your boy did?” Agent Sitwell said, clearly refraining himself from obviously leashing out and strangling someone, trying his best to keep calm. “He fucking shot arrow toys at me for a good fucking ten minutes in the shitting range! How did he even get a damn archery set in? He’s a proby, he isn’t supposed to fucking have those kind of things!”

“Oh please, at least you aren’t covered in maple syrup. The fucker filled our water supply with it and pulled the fire alarm. Now we have at least fifty agents soaked in sweet sticky syrup, all of the showers are now occupied and are going to be for a few hours.” Agent Hill exclaimed, glaring daggers at Sitwell.

“Yeah well he sent a remote control car toy equipped with paint bombs in the R&D department and now everyone who was present at the time is covered in paint, oh and let’s not forget about all of our exposed weapons that were there as well.” This time it was Agent Morse who butted in. The three of them simultaneously turned their glares towards Coulson who has been sitting there silently during the whole exchange and waited for his reply.

Coulson carefully set his pen down, face still blank like this was something that happened everyday, and mildly asked. “Agent Barton, do you have any proper explanations for your actions?” Clint was just as surprised as the five confused agents standing right below him. He knew he hadn’t made any sound ever since he got here, even stopped breathing, yet Coulson was still capable of detecting his presence in the vents. The five agents looked around for any signs of the archer but turned to look at each other when they didn’t catch sight of anyone else in the room then looked at Coulson like he was out of his mind. Clint contemplated getting out of his hiding place but considered that the five agents below would probably try to rip his throat out at his appearance so he decided to stay put instead.

“I was bored.” He said nonchalantly, at the sound of his voice, everyone – besides Coulson of course, still composed and face hidden behind his perfectly blank mask – looked up at him through the vents. They stood there staring dumbfoundedly at the ceiling before jumping to spewing out profanities directed at him, the most creative ones coming out of Sitwell’s mouth.

Coulson slowly raised his hands and waited for the commotion to slowly die down “You’re benched for two months and your range access will be revoked for three. That’s a final. Everyone, dismissed.” He announced before going back to work.

Well fuck, that didn’t work.

* * *

 

If you want to piss off a superior through pranking his subordinates and it doesn’t work, you prank the superior directly. That’s Clint’s motto. Alright maybe not, he just made it up. The thing was, Coulson went to get another cup of coffee and Clint had five minutes before his handler’s return to disarrange his office. Piece of cake. Clint lifted his arms and relocated every piece of furniture to their respective opposite side of the room with a sweep of his hands, then he took out stacks of post-it notes from his pocket and started covering Coulson’s desk with them until there was no wood visible to his eyes…that is if you didn’t count paper as wood. Right on time, he heard a movement from the other side of the door so he quickly climbed up inside the vents and waited for his victim’s reaction.

As soon as Coulson stepped one foot into his office, he stopped and swept the room with his eyes. For a split second he just stood there, analyzing the situation, then shut the door and walked further into the room like nothing happened. It was only after he settled down in his chair that he spoke up “Your range access is revoked for another five months, Barton.”

Clint’s response was to thump his head against the metal wall of the vent before asking “Aren’t you at least going to ask how I’ve done it so quickly?”

Without taking his eyes off of his post-it notes covered computer, he answered “I’m pretty sure you’re not going to tell me so I’m not going to waste my time. Now get out of my vents.”

Clint needed another plan.

* * *

 

He was _so_ close. He could see the anger simmering at the surface of Coulson’s eyes, the tension vibrating between them as Coulson interrogated him on why he thought bringing the deadliest spy to the core of S.H.I.E.L.D. was a good idea.

Five days ago Coulson and Clint were sent to Budapest in order to eliminate Black Widow. Three days ago Clint went radio silence with a last ‘See you, sir’ and had been off grid for two days with the Widow as company until yesterday he emerged at the doors of S.H.I.E.L.D. HQ looking thoroughly alive and fine with Black Widow right behind him. She was, at the moment, contained in one of their most resistant cell but they doubted that she couldn’t easily get out so the fact that she was still there was reassuring but at the same time unnerving. As for Clint, he was handcuffed to an interrogation table, he didn’t give much effort to back up his actions, just to see if it would push Coulson over the edge. It didn’t. After Clint’s third lame excuse that technically didn’t actually make much sense, Coulson just stared at him, he could see the moment Coulson gave up any hope of extracting information out of him “Agent Barton, you will be in charge of training, looking out for and testing Miss Romanova, you will both be surveyed 24/7 and forbidden from leaving the building as well as stepping foot in various departments in S.H.I.E.L.D. such as the range or R&D. Is that understood?” Once again, baffled by the consequences, by his handler’s stubbornness to stay composed and calm, Clint could only nod in agreement before Coulson exited the room.

_So_ close.

* * *

 

Success!

Clint celebrated as he looked up from where he was bobbing his head up and down, lips wrapped around his handler’s cock to see the man staring back at him, his eyes wide, pupils dilated and mouth parted to take short harsh breaths. His jacket had been thrown on the ground near the coat rack at the entrance from the beginning, his shirt was wrinkled and its sleeves were folded up, two buttons were undone where you could see the starting of his dark brown chest hair, his hair was disheveled but probably not as much as Clint’s from where Coulson kept running his hand through and sometimes clenching around them when the archer teased the head or rolled his balls between his fingers, the callouses catching at the sensitive skin.

He could stop right there, he had accomplished his mission, completed his own challenge. He could just get up, leave the man hanging in confusion, and disappear. He could. He didn’t. He stayed and finished the blowjob, after all, Coulson made it quite entertaining for Clint to break him apart, he deserved at least an orgasm for the effort. It was absolutely not because he wanted to stay, Clint persuaded himself as he tasted salty cum in his mouth, his own dick straining against the front of his jeans.

Absolutely not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the title, pun totally intended.

**Author's Note:**

> Any feedbacks are welcome.  
> Thanks for reading.  
> You can contact me on http://shinichi17cp.tumblr.com/


End file.
